Relevant Wizardry
by Caustic Paladin
Summary: Reese and Finch's latest number is an odd one. Visiting New York from Chicago, PI Harry Dresden has almost NO digital footprint. No cell phone, no internet presence, not even a power bill. Worse... he advertises in the Yellow Pages under "Wizards." Takes place between "Turn Coat" and "Changes" for Dresden, after "Bury the Lede" for Reese and Finch. BOOK DRESDEN, NOT TV!
1. Chapter 1

Relevant Wizardry: Chapter 1

John Reese straightened from tying the idiot gang banger to a light pole with a plastic tie, looked at the middle-aged woman who stood watching with a mixture of approval and humor, and said, "Well, Mrs. Glaser, I think you'll be safe now. This one—" He nodded at the gang tough he'd stopped from shooting the lady in reprisal for her testimony against the leader of the Brooklyn Kings, a local street gang. "—was the last member of the gang. The others are all in jail, and the police will be along shortly to take this one away."

"All of them? All seven of them?" Anne Glaser said, sounding surprised, but pleased.

"Yes, ma'am," Reese said, smiling just a little. "It seems that they were found in possession of an awful lot of cocaine last night. Given that you reported their leader for selling the stuff at the school where you teach, their protests that they had no idea where it came from fell on deaf ears."

Mrs. Glaser laughed aloud for a moment, then said, "Thank you… what should I call you? I'm pretty sure 'Coach Hershey' isn't who you really are."

"Probably best if you keep thinking of me that way," Reese said, nodding. "Though I have to admit… I'm not going to miss the 'coach' part."

"Well then, Mr. Hershey, thank you," Anne Glaser said. She heard sirens and glanced to the east. "I hear sirens. If you're going to pull a Lone Ranger, you'd probably—"

She looked back to where John Hershey, substitute gym teacher, had been standing, but he wasn't there. In fact, he wasn't anywhere on the street, despite there really being nowhere for him to have gone.

"Well," Anne said to the air, "at least I won't have to listen to kids complaining about him acting like a drill sergeant any more."

On the other side of the block— reached by ducking through the empty row house two doors down from Anne Glaser, and the one on the other side of the alley another house down— John Reese pressed the earbud he wore in his right ear. "It's done, Harold. Anne Glaser is safe."

"Very good timing, Mr. Reese," said the voice of Harold Finch in his ear. "The machine just gave me another number, but it's… presenting me with some unusual problems. Why don't you come to the library, perhaps I'll have some information by the time you arrive… I hope."

"All right, Harold," Reese said, sliding into the rather shoddy-looking car that Finch had supplied him with for this job— a substitute gym teacher wasn't likely to drive a Mercedes, after all— and starting it. It didn't look like much, but it ran like a top. "I'll be there in an hour or a bit more— I'm going to grab a shower and get out of these clothes, first."

"Understood, I'll see you shortly."

Reese drove home, showered, dressed in his accustomed unadorned suit, and went to the abandoned library that Finch used as a headquarters, and, at least part of the time, a home. As soon as he got out on the second floor, where Harold kept all of his computer and communications equipment, Bear, the Belgian Malinois that he'd rescued from a bunch of Aryan Brotherhood members, came trotting over, tail wagging. Reese bent and scratched the dogs ears, thumped his sides, and gave the dog a piece of beef jerky he'd brought along as a treat.

"Hello, Finch," Reese said, stepping over to the board where the smaller man posted information about their current number. There was a surprisingly small amount there— in fact, the entirety of the information that Finch had found was an Illinois driver's license. "That's… all you have?"

"That, and that our number is a licensed private investigator in the state of Illinois," Harold Finch replied, turning in his chair to look at Reese. "I've found that he's on his way to New York via Amtrak, and will arrive at Penn Station tomorrow at six-thirty-five PM. He has no cell phone, unless it's a burner model, and he's barely in the system at all. I can't even find a power bill in his name. I've accessed his bank records, and he pays for an office in Chicago, pays a phone bill, rent at a Chicago boarding house, and that… seems to be the entirety of his involvement with modern society. Not even a power bill, as I said, despite the fact that other renters in the boarding house where he lives pay their own power, and there is a meter associated with his address. The power company checks it regularly, thinking that the resident might have gimmicked it so that he could steal power, but it's never been tampered with."

"Where's his money come from?" Reese asked. "Is his private eye business doing enough to keep him afloat?"

"Marginally, perhaps," Finch said. "He does, however, receive a rather substantial monthly check— an actual, physical check, mind you, not a funds transfer— from something called 'the Edinburgh Society for the Preservation of Druidic History,' which, so far as I can tell, has an office and bank account in Edinburgh, Scotland— and otherwise does not exist. Not even a website for the organization is to be found."

"Is he… some kind of anti-technology fanatic?" Reese asked.

"Not that I can tell," Finch said. "He does own a car— an antique Beetle, though he doesn't get antique plates for it, and if his bank account is any indication, it spends a great deal of time in the shop."

"Any clue why he's coming to the city?" Reese asked.

"None, I'm afraid." Finch frowned at his computer screen. "This one may be a bit more of a challenge than most numbers are, Mr. Reese, given the dearth of information we're having to deal with."

Reese leaned closer to the picture of the subject's driver's license, and said, "Well, at least this Harry Dresden won't be hard to spot. His driver's license says he's six-foot-nine, so he'll stand out in a crowd."

"Yes, that will certainly… oh. Oh, my. That's… most unusual."

Reese turned around to find Harold staring at the screen of his computer. He stepped closer, saw the "Yellow Pages— Chicago" heading on the webpage, but couldn't see more due to the angle, and he didn't want to bend over and invade Harold's personal space too much— that made the smaller man uncomfortable. "What is it, Finch?"

Finch sat back slowly, then said, "Harry Dresden pays for a Yellow Pages ad each year, so I went to see if any further information could be gleaned from the ad— stranger things have happened. When I didn't find him listed under private investigators, I searched for his name… and I found his ad. Under 'wizards,' Mr. Reese."

"Wizards?" Reese said, confused. "Finch, are you serious?"

"Very serious," the little man said, and he moved away so that Reese could bend over and see for himself.

Reese looked at the screen and read, under the standard Yellow Pages font header "Wizards," _Harry Dresden— Wizard. Lost items found. Paranormal investigations. Consulting. Advice. Reasonable rates. No love potions, endless purses, or other entertainment,_ and a phone number.

Reese stood up, shook his head a little, and said, "This guy's nuts."

"Very possibly, yes," Finch said, moving back to the computer. "I wasn't able to find anything indicating a threat to him, but that's not a surprise, given the lack of available information. Given his private investigator's license, I suspected a probable involvement of a former client, or former client's spouse, in whatever brought him to the attention of the Machine. Now, though… I wonder if his belief in magic, that he can do magic, might be a factor— if it might make him a danger to someone else."

Reese sighed and shook his head. "I don't know, Finch, but I suppose it's possible. Either way, I'll be at Penn station when he arrives tomorrow, see what I can learn about him."

"That seems to be our only option at the moment," Finch agreed. "That gives you the evening off, and most of tomorrow, Mr. Reese. I suggest you take the time to relax… it isn't like we get a lot of time off."

"A very good point, Harold," Reese said. "Care to join me for dinner? You should get out more yourself."

"Actually, Mr. Reese," Finch said, standing, "that sounds like an excellent idea. I believe that I could eat a steak. There's a very good place a few blocks away— good food, and not likely to be crowded on a Tuesday."

Reese smiled a little and said, "The day I don't want a steak, you should probably get me to a doctor, Finch."

"I'll try to remember that," Finch said with a small chuckle.

**88888888888888888888888888888888888888888888**

To John Reese's complete lack of surprise, Amtrak's Lake Shore Limited out of Chicago was running late by fifteen minutes or so. He looked around, saw no one holding a sign with the name Harry Dresden on it, but that wasn't surprising. How many six-foot-nine Caucasian males were likely to be on any one train, after all? If someone was meeting Dresden, the odds were good that they wouldn't need a sign, just a basic description.

Finch hadn't managed to find out anything else substantial about the man, save that he had been detained a time or two by the Chicago PD, but never actually charged with anything, and that a Chicago-local talk show host was attempting (for the seventh time) to sue the man for damages to the set of his show, as well as to the host's personal car. Apparently, during the course of Dresden's second appearance on the show, several cameras had caught fire, lights had blown up, and somehow, Fowler's car had been destroyed. He'd tried to sue several times, and each had been thrown out of court, but the man just got a new lawyer and tried again.

The train pulled in, finally, and Reese shifted position a little, watched the crowd of waiting people for anyone who looked like they might be intending to harm someone getting off the train. They still didn't know if Harry Dresden was a victim or perpetrator, so the crowded train station rated extra attention— it would be an excellent place to kill someone and get away in the crowds.

Reese spotted Harry Dresden as the man ducked his way off the train. Six-nine, a head full of thick, somewhat long and unruly brown hair, on the handsome side of average-looking (despite a couple of facial scars), wearing a black leather duster over a T-shirt that had something printed on it and a pair of blue jeans. He carried a six-foot long staff in one hand, an overnight bag in the other. The staff had symbols carved into it, and it took a major effort of will for Reese not to shake his head or roll his eyes at the sight.

As Dresden stepped off of the train and started towards the baggage claim area, a pretty, Asian girl or young woman of eighteen or so stepped out of the crowd and started toward him. She wore a full-length coat, with two buttons in the middle fastened, and moved… carefully. Reese suspected that she might have some weapon under the coat, and he started after her as she started for Dresden. He was close enough to hear her call, "Warden Dresden," as she got close— and to see Dresden wince as he stopped, but compose himself before he turned to face her.

"Alyssa," Dresden said, as the girl got closer. "Just Harry, remember? We're trying not to attract a lot of attention." With that the tall man looked around, and Reese barely averted his gaze, looked out over the crowd as though searching for someone, in time to avoid detection.

"Sorry, s— Harry." The girl sighed and pushed her hair out of her face. "I'm… nervous. I have no idea how to handle something like this, and with Warden Felder out of town…."

"You did the right thing by calling for help," Dresden said as he and the girl started for the baggage car. "That's what the Paranet is for, after all. And I brought help of my own, though we'll have to go pick him up at the airport."

The two went out of hearing for a moment, and Reese muttered a curse. His phone was acting up, giving him short blasts of static in his earbud, which made it even harder to eavesdrop.

Dresden claimed a big suitcase, and he and the young woman started for the exits to the parking garages, not talking much, and none that Reese could hear. He followed them as discreetly as possible, saw them get into a beautifully kept old Dodge Dart, the girl driving. Before getting in the car, she took a straight walking stick, also rune-carved, out from under her coat— it was almost certainly why she'd been carrying herself stiffly. Fortunately for Dresden, the car seemed to have bucket seats, or he have been chewing on his own kneecaps; the woman Alyssa was only two or three inches over five feet tall.

Reese got to his own car in time to go after them, and as he left the parking garage, he called Finch.

"Harold, I managed to get a line on Dresden," Reese said, "but I couldn't get close enough to determine if he has a cell phone. However, I have a license plate number for you. May belong to the young lady who met him." Reese rattled off the plate number that he'd memorized before the car pulled out and added, "It's a bright red Dodge Dart, a sixty-two, I think."

"All right, just a moment," Finch said. He then added, "I wasn't aware you were an old car aficionado, Mr. Reese."

"When I was a teenager, I got the bug, and I preferred old cars to new ones," Reese said. "The woman Dresden is with may also be… convinced she's got some magical abilities, Finch. Dresden had a heavily carved staff, and she carried a smaller walking stick carved in a similar fashion. Also, she called him 'Warden' Dresden, and it sounds like she called him for help of some sort via something called the Paranet."

"I'll see if I can find anything that relates to any of that after… ah, here it is," Finch said. "The car is registered to one Alyssa Delacroix… she's twenty-five, employed as a… oh, dear. She owns a small tattoo parlor… where she also reads tarot for people. There is a website for her shop, but it seems to be professionally designed and maintained. The shop doesn't even take credit or debit cards. She has no internet connection, no cell phone… owns a house in Queens, a nice neighborhood in Astoria. She, at least, has electricity, though… that's odd. According to her bank account, Alyssa Delacroix has called electricians and general handymen for repairs to various electrically powered devices fifteen times in the last twelve months. She has had her car in for electrical work three times in the last year, as well… and she lives six blocks from her business, probably only drives when the weather is foul."

"Sounds like she has a lot in common with Dresden," Reese said, following the old car out towards JFK airport. "They didn't seem to know each other when they met, though, so I doubt that there's anything romantic there."

"I doubt it, too, Mr. Reese," Finch said. "Alyssa Delacroix is married, her wife owns a small bookshop, also in Queens, which, according to the ad in the Yellow Pages, specializes in occult books and supplies."

"Okay, this is starting to sound like they're all part of some… subculture, Finch." Reese sighed. "Not one I'm comfortable with. People who believe in magic are… well, they're not people I can relate to."

"I sympathize, Mr. Reese, believe me," Finch said. "I'm a scientist. I believe what can be proven scientifically, and nothing else." Reese heard a keyboard clicking for a moment, then heard Finch sigh. "I'm afraid there is a magical subculture involved here, Mr. Reese. Alyssa Delacroix's wife, Celeste, also has a minimal digital footprint— no internet or cell phone, actually keeps her accounts by hand, according to the IRS file on her, and also accepts no credit or debit cards. In fact… a note from the IRS agent who audited her store in 2010 says she uses an antique, 1950s-era cash register."

"These people are practically Luddites," Reese said. "And here's another puzzle for you, Finch; Dresden came in on Amtrak, but he has some help coming into the airport. Why didn't they travel together?"

"I have no idea, Mr. Reese." Finch made a noise of annoyance or confusion, more likely both. "Very little about this experience is making any sense at all."

Reese followed Dresden and Delacroix as discreetly as possible, using all the tricks he'd learned in his CIA days, and just as it became plain that they were not going to JFK's passenger terminals, Finch called back.

"I've found some further… odd information, Mr. Reese," Finch said. "It seems that Alyssa and Celeste Delacroix— the last name is Alyssa's by birth— live with one Locke Delacroix, an author of fantasy novels who has been quite successful over the last seven years."

"Is he Alyssa's brother, then?" Reese asked as he went past the parking area that Alyssa had pulled her car into, and down to the next one.

"No, Mr. Reese," Finch said. "He legally changed his last name to Delacroix three years ago— when he moved in with Alyssa and Celeste after they were married. His birth name was Locke Fulton, which he still writes under. He has a cell phone, and a website that he seems to participate in, where he blogs about writing— and about LGBT rights and alternative lifestyles. According to the 'about me' section of the site, he feels strongly about these subjects because he considers himself married to a pair of bisexual women."

"This is getting more and more off the wall," Reese said with a sigh. He was looking through binoculars as Dresden and Delacroix got out of her car and approached Greystoke Animal Transportation Services. "This backup that Dresden wanted to pick up at an airport is apparently an animal." He told Finch the name of the place while watching as a couple of men from the transport company wheel out a pallet jack with a big cage on it. The thing was aluminum with narrow slits in it, not bars, more than six feet long, a bit more than four feet tall, and three and a half feet wide. Reese had seen such before— they were used to transport jungle cats a lot of the time. "Harold, does Dresden have a license to collect big cats or— oh. Never mind, it's a dog. At least… I _think_ that's a dog."

Dresden had opened the cage… and out came a four-foot-tall-at-the-shoulder mass of mostly-gray fur that was wagging its tail almost frantically, and nearly tackled Dresden in apparent delight at seeing him. The huge dog's puppyish excitement set both of the employees present to laughing, and Alyssa Delacroix as well. When the dog had calmed down a bit, he walked over to the woman, sat, and offered her a paw.

"Oh, my." Finch sounded impressed. "A search of pet licenses issued to Harry Dresden shows that he has a Tibetan-Mastiff-and-unknown-breed cross named 'Mouse.' Tibetan Mastiffs are very, very large as a rule, with some specimens going over two hundred pounds."

"In this case," Reese said, smiling a little almost against his will as Dresden's dog made friends with Alyssa Delacroix, "I think the cross might have produced an unusually large member of the canine family. They shipped him in a cage made for big cats, Harold, and it didn't seem to have a lot of room to spare. But I wonder why he didn't ship him on the train?"

"Amtrak does not, at this time, allow animals of any sort other than service dogs aboard their trains, not even in the baggage cars," Finch said. "It's one of the things that makes them… unpopular in certain circles."

"So Dresden sends his dog air-freight, which can't be cheap, but comes on Amtrak himself? I'm confused." Reese watched as the dog climbed easily into the back seat of the car, despite it being a two-door model, and the two humans followed. He held back until the car was almost out of sight, then started after them, heading towards Queens when he lost sight of them.

It didn't take long before he caught up to them again, and, when they got off at the appropriate exit to go towards the address that Finch gave him for Alyssa's home, he managed to hold back until they'd gotten off the off-ramp before getting on it himself.

"Mister Reese, a bit more digging indicates that Harry Dresden may be afraid of flying," Finch said. "He has flown a few times, and… nearly every time, the plane has suffered some sort of electrical malfunction. The last time he flew was from Chicago to Portland, Oregon, and the plane… well, it lost all communications and computers. They had to land blind, deaf, and dumb. That had to be nerve-wracking, and it's the last time he took a plane— I'm not sure I blame him."

Reese frowned. "That might make you leery about flying, yes, but… Finch, what happens when you add his history with planes, his lack of electric power in his home, and Alyssa Delacroix's unusual number of electronics service calls? Can you check her wife's history with electricians? And maybe their husband's? You said he has a digital footprint, but there's no internet at their home… how does that work?"

For a moment, Finch said nothing. Finally, he sighed and said, "I'm glad you're used to investigative work, Mr. Reese, I'd have missed that completely. Give me a moment, here…."

While Finch did his searching, Delacroix drove on past her house, went to the building where she had set up "Alyssa's Tats and Tarot," and all three went into the building, even the dog.

"They've gone into her shop, Finch," Reese said. "I'd rather not go in myself. Anything on your end?"

"A bit of information that is… potentially disturbing, yes," Finch said over the clicking of his keyboard. "Celeste Delacroix has had electricians into her shop to repair lighting or electrical outlets nine times in the last ten months, a total of eleven times the year before.

"Locke Fulton, on the other hand, had no electrical repairs to his own vehicle or apartment in the four years he lived in the city alone, but… about three and a half years ago, when, according to his blog, he met Alyssa and Celeste, he went through three cell phones in four months, had his laptop in the shop twice in one month, and his car five times in six months, each time for a problem with the electrical system or the car's computer. He sold his car— it was a Toyota Prius— and bought an antique car, a 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air. That car has only been in the shop twice in three years, once for a new clutch, once for a radiator flushing. When he moved in with Alyssa and Celeste Delacroix, he began renting a small office on the Long Island City side of the border between it and Astoria, roughly twenty blocks from their home in Astoria. He goes there seven days a week, barring the occasional holiday, works on his current writing project, blogs, Tweets, updates his Facebook and Google Plus pages… and leaves his computer and cell phone there when he goes home each night."

For a long moment, neither man spoke. Then Reese said, "There's a pattern there, Finch. It seems that Dresden and the Delacroixs share some sort of… improbably bad luck with technology advanced enough to require electrical parts, and that it gets worse the more advanced the technology is."

"It does appear that way," Finch agreed, his voice slightly grudging. "That may have contributed to their delusion that they're capable of doing magic. Though it seems that Mr. Delacroix has suffered the same effect via contact with the ladies… Mr. Reese, to be perfectly honest, I'm really not sure what to make of all this."

"That," Reese said, "makes two of us, Harold."

Finch signed off to dig deeper into whatever he could, and Reese sat and watched. He could see that Dresden's dog had stayed in the front part of the shop, was, in fact, sitting in the big bay window at the front and watching the street. In fact, the big dog's head swiveled back and forth, as though he were looking for something in particular, or actively guarding the place.

At a little after eight at night, a deep blue 1957 Chevy Bel Air with silver-gray trim pulled up to the shop, and two people got out, a slender young woman with long brown hair, and a tall, fit man with blond hair worn long enough to put in a ponytail. She wore a wine-red skirt and a white blouse, he had on gray cargo pants and a polo shirt about the same shade as the pants, and each wore a coat over their clothes, hers a trench coat, his a bomber jacket.

"Finch, do you have photos of Celeste and Locke Delacroix?" Reese asked after activating his earbud.

"Yes, of course— I should have sent those to you already, Mr. Reese, my apologies." Reese's phone beeped, and he checked it, confirmed that the people who had just entered the tattoo parlor were… he supposed they were Alyssa Delacroix's wife and husband, as odd as that seemed to him.

"They've just arrived at the tattoo parlor," Reese said, watching as they were met at the door by Alyssa, who kissed each of them, then introduced them to Dresden's dog.

A couple of moments later, Dresden himself stepped out with the dog on a short lead. He stopped and tied shut his duster, then took the dog for a walk around the block, apparently policing the animal. When they came back, the other three met them outside the now-closed tattoo parlor, and got into the cars they'd arrived in. They all drove off in a direction that would take them away from the Delacroixs' home, and, after making sure that he'd given them plenty of wagon room, Reese followed. He let Finch know they were moving, acknowledged that the other man was trying to track down this "Paranet" that Dresden and Alyssa Delacroix were seemingly both involved in, and stuck with his surveillance duties.

"At least the old cars make following them from a distance easy," Reese said to himself as he watched the distinct taillights of Locke Delacroix's Bel Air turn right onto 10th Street.

It wasn't long before the two cars pulled over to the curb in front of a huge, warehouse-like building that housed a marble and granite business. They were just a couple of blocks from the shores of the East River. Reese pulled off and parked before they'd finished, next to something that claimed to be both an import-export business, and a store that sold party favors and collectibles. He waited and watched, but it seemed that no one in the group down the block had spotted him. They all simply got out of the cars and walked across the street to a residence, what looked like an old and rather shabby detached townhouse, at least from this distance.

Reese grabbed his binoculars and raised them, managed to see that Dresden had just torn loose some crime scene tape that had been across the door, was now flapping in the stiff breeze off the river.

"Finch, Dresden and the others are entering a townhouse in the thirty-three hundred block of 10th street, and he's pulled loose some crime scene tape to do it," Reese said after tapping his comms device to activate it. "Think you can find out what happened there without having to bother Lionel or Detective Carter?"

"I should be able to, yes," Finch replied. For a moment, all Reese heard was the clicking of keys, the Finch said a rather alarmed, "Oh, my."

"What is it, Finch?" Reese asked when the other man didn't continue immediately. Even as he asked, he saw a large van drive by the place very slowly, and an arm point out the passenger's window at Alyssa Delacroix's car. The van went around the corner on to 33rd Road, and, by brake light activity, parked.

"Five days ago, there was a home invasion or… perhaps a spree killing, the police aren't sure, at that address. Four people were killed very… very violently, one of them a nine year old child." Finch sounded ill, but more firm when he continued, "The medical examiner's report has been actively deleted after being printed, and there's a notation that any further reports on this or similar cases are to be done on typewriters, nothing is to be put in the system.

"John, the last time I saw something like that, it was a serial killer case, and the coroner's computer was hacked by a reporter, causing them to switch to hard copies only."

"See if you can find anything similar recently, Harold," Reese said, getting out of the car and starting towards the house where Dresden and the others had gone at a brisk walk. "I've got some suspicious activity outside the place, and Dresden and the Delacroixs have all gone inside. I'm going that way."

"Be careful, Mr. Reese."

"I always am." John heard a small snort from the other end of the connection, and smiled a little as he checked his SIG-Sauer P226R by feel, confirmed that it was properly seated in its shoulder holster. "All right, I usually am."

"That's at least slightly more believable, Mr. Reese," Finch said. "I've found something about this Paranet that Alyssa Delacroix used to contact Harry Dresden, but it's nothing urgent, I'll brief you on what I've found after you're sure everyone is safe."

"Understood," Reese said, and closed the comms down to avoid any distractions— six people were headed for the house where Dresden and the others had gone, and they moved like they were trying to be stealthy. Reese moved faster, but didn't run— that would only draw attention to him, and the element of surprise was much more likely to help him than getting there sooner was.

He reached a point where he could see that the six figures were gathered on the porch, and the breeze brought to him a stench of rotting flesh, and he very nearly gagged. It seemed to be coming from the people on the porch….

Then he heard a tremendously loud bark, and a woman's voice cried, "HARRY! VAMPIRES!"

"This is insane," Reese muttered— even as he broke into a run towards the house, moving in just behind the six figures that he still hadn't seen clearly, but could smell all too well.

Even as he came the front door into a small living room, maybe fifteen feet by twenty, one of the figures that had come in ahead of him staggered backwards to hit the wall next to the door— hard enough to shake the whole building and imbed the thing in the plaster-and-lath of the wall.

Things got crazier fast. Dresden, his coat flaring as he spun, turned to face the back of the house, where four figures could be seen coming out of what was probably a kitchen, moving like cops or soldiers, and one said, "What the hell is that smell?"

Alyssa Delacroix, looking scared but in control, pulled her wife and husband close to her, then raised her rune-carved walking stick and said in a clear voice, _"Hemelvuur barrière."_

Even as she spoke— Reese thought it was Dutch, the second word was "fence," he was pretty sure— the air seemed to grow heavy with static— then a field of visible electric arcs surrounded the three Delacroixs. As this weird barrier materialized, Dresden's dog, Mouse, leapt at one of the corpse-looking men and bore him to the ground, roaring and tearing at the man.

In the meantime, one of the horrible-smelling men had turned to face Reese, who found himself staring into the face of a corpse— a rotting corpse.

"Nice makeup," Reese said calmly, and shot the man in the knee.

He heard the bullet ricochet. Off of a knee. That was, by the lack of bulk in the pants leg, completely unarmored.

"It's not makeup," the thing said in a horrible, thick and glutinous voice. Then it grabbed Reese by the collar of his suit and threw him at Dresden, who was rooting in his coat pocket for something.

Then two men crashed together, and Dresden went flying at the four armed men in a hurry, Reese on top of him. As they hit the ground, one of the men thrust his gun at Reese's face, and years of training and instinct took over. He'd dropped his Sig when he slammed into Dresden, so he took the gun the was pointing at least partially at his head, slapping the barrel aside even as he punched the back of the hand that held the gun. As the Beretta forty caliber dropped neatly into his hand, Reese shot the former owner in the knee, was gratified to hear him scream.

"You got these guys?" Dresden asked as Reese came up and shoved the injured man into the other three.

"I've got them," Reese said, relieved to face something normal.

"I'll get the vampires, then," Dresden said, and pushed to his feet as Reese stepped into the kitchen— and into the middle of the three armed men in there.

A gun came up, and Reese shot the owner in the leg even as he punched him in the elbow, breaking the bone and causing him to drop the weapon even as he fell. As he turned to the next man, stepped in too close for guns to be useful and punched him in the jaw with the barrel of his borrowed gun, he heard Dresden mutter "Okay, no setting the place on fire, Harry. Control your flames."

Then Dresden said, in a clear voice, "Fuego," and light flared up behind Reese, even as something shrieked. John glanced backwards and saw one of the corpse-looking men go up in flames— and burn away to nothing so quickly that he might as well have been made of flash paper.

One of the last two men got off a wild shot, and Dresden staggered forward. Even as he turned his attention back to the fight that he'd claimed as his, John Reese saw a flattened disc of lead drop from the shoulder of Dresden's leather duster to the floor.

"This," Reese said for the second time in only a couple of minutes, "is insane."

Then he kneed the man before him in the groin and shoved him back into the man who'd shot Dresden. While they were tangled, he stepped in and, using his borrowed Beretta in a way he'd never treat his own weapon, he proceeded to club each of the men unconscious.

He turned back to the fight in the living room in time to see a third of the corpse-things go up in flames, even as Dresden's dog tore one's head completely free of its body— which caused that one to disintegrate to dust impossibly fast.

That left two of them moving, and one was closing on Dresden, the other on his dog. Dresden had a two-foot long, heavily carved stick in his right hand, his staff in his right, and the thing facing him seemed hesitant, so Reese turned to the… thing menacing the dog. Given the way that a bullet had bounced off of the first one he'd shot, and the relatively short range, he decided to do something that he'd never have done against a… normal opponent.

Reese shot the thing in the left eye. It howled in anger and pain, and it's eye burst— but, impossibly, Reese could see the flattened bullet in its eye socket.

Dresden's dog let out a roaring bark and leapt at the thing, bore it to the ground even as it stepped towards Reese. He glanced at Dresden, saw him incinerate the fifth of the things, then turn towards where his dog straddled the last one, tearing at it and snarling.

"Mouse, move!" Dresden snapped, and his dog jumped off of the corpse-thing to one side.

"Fuego!" Dresden said again— and Reese said a narrow, brilliant lance of yellow-white fire leap off of the shorter stick in his right hand, hit the creature— and it went up in a burst of flame and ash that barely even singed the carpet beneath it.

Alyssa Delacroix lowered the walking stick she'd been holding before her since the beginning of the mess, and suddenly collapsed to her knees and began taking great, gasping breaths. Even as she did that, and her spouses knelt with her making concerned noises, Dresden's dog shook himself once, looked around— and trotted over to sit in front of Reese.

Even as Dresden started that way, the dog raised his right paw and offered it to Reese. Without even thinking, he bent and shook the dog's paw, and when he let it down, started scratching the animal's ears. Then Dresden was beside the dog, offering his hand to Reese.

"Thanks," the tall man said, shaking Reese's hand easily. "You really saved our bacon there— if I'd had to deal with those guys as well as the Black Court assholes, it would've been bad.

"Hi, I'm Harry Dresden."

"John Reese," he replied automatically. He looked around the room, then back at Dresden and asked in a slow, deliberate voice, "What the hell just happened, Mr. Dresden?"

"That," Dresden replied with a sigh, "is a long story. How about we talk about it over a pizza? I'm starved, and Alyssa should eat."

"Pizza." Reese sighed. "Maybe we should look over the people who attacked you, first, see if we can figure out what's going on with them?"

"Oh, right," Dresden said, smacking his forehead with the heel of his hand. _"Then_ we can grab a pizza."

Reese stared at the man for a long moment, then, almost against his will, let out a short, but very real laugh.

_**88888888888888888888888888888888888888888888**_


	2. Chapter 2

Relevant Wizardry: Chapter 2

"Before we go any farther," John Reese said to Dresden, "those six…."

"Vampires." "Dresden sighed and dry scrubbed his face. "Black Court vampires, which means that— you ever read Dracula?"

"Back in school, but it's been a while," Reese admitted.

"Black Court vampires are like the ones in the book," Dresden said. "Religious items will hold them off, at least if you believe, garlic can kill them, as well as fire and sunlight. Beheading is good, too, but they're way, way tougher than most people can even imagine— you need to be about as strong as humans get, and wielding a top-grade sword or axe, to pull it off. Staking them paralyzes them, doesn't kill them."

Reese just looked at the man for a moment, then said, in a clear, calm voice, "This… is insane."

"Welcome to my world," Dresden said, deadpan.

"Well… anyway, those six… vampires, they got out of a van that parked just around the corner on 33rd Road," Reese said. "You might—"

"Mouse, come with me," Dresden interrupted. "Listen, Alyssa isn't real strong, magically, she's gonna be tapped out after the lightning fence thing— keep an eye on her for a sec, I'll be back as soon as I'm sure that the van's as gone as I suspect it will be."

With that, the tall man turned and walked out of the house, his mountain of a dog on his heels.

Reese looked at the Delacroixs, decided that there wasn't much he could do to help them, and recovered his Sig before he went to the four downed men. He searched them carefully, thought it odd that not one had a cell phone, though he found that each had a second gun on him, as well as a knife and a multi-tool apiece. He relieved them of all of that stuff, whipped around with his gun down-but-ready when he heard the front door open, relaxed when he saw Mouse come in just in front of Dresden.

"Van's gone," Dresden said. "No surprise. They probably left once they were sure the vamps were in here. You find any— whoa. Those guys came armed for bear.

"Alyssa, you okay?"

"I'll be fine, Harry," the young woman assured him. "I just need some food— and about ten hours of sleep."

"I hear you," Harry said. "We need to find out who these other guys are, first, then we'll take our new friend and get some food."

"Deal," Alyssa said.

Harry came over and watched as Reece methodically searched each man for ID or anything else useful. He found no wallets at all, but each man had five hundred dollars in hundreds somewhere on his person.

"So, what makes you so sure I'm a friend?" Reese asked as he checked each man for distinguishing marks.

"You busting in here to help was a pretty good indicator," Dresden said with a snicker. "Then Mouse liked you— and my dog is… he's no ordinary dog, and more ways than just his size. Believe it or not, I'm pretty sure he's as smart as anyone in the room."

Reese looked up at Dresden and said, "I just fought vampires, or watched you fight them. I shot one in the eye, and while the eye popped… the bullet stopped there. No penetration. I'm a lot of things, Mr. Dresden, but I'm not one to deny the evidence just because I don't like what it tells me.

"So, after vampires? A super-smart dog isn't all that much of a leap."

"Good point," Dresden said. "I would like to know who you are and why you're here, but I'm not going to be paranoid about getting those answers right away."

"That's a long story, and that reminds me," Reese said, standing up straight— none of the men had any tattoos that he could find, or anything else useful in identifying them— and touching his earbud. "Finch, I'm okay, but things are… odd."

No answer. No hiss of a carrier wave. Nothing.

"What the hell…?" Reese muttered, and popped the earbud out to look at it.

"Uh, is that some sort of… walkie-talkie, or mini-cell-phone or something?" Dresden asked.

"It's a micro-headset to my cell phone, yes," Reese said. He took out his cell phone— which was dark and unresponsive, despite having been at a full charge just a few minutes ago. "Oh, great. Must have broken in the fight."

"Uh, not the way you mean, probably," Dresden said, looking a little guilty. "See, wizards and technology, we… uh, don't get along. Between Alyssa's defensive magic and all the stuff I was tossing around… well, your phone's probably kaput. I can pay for it, but—"

"No, that's okay," Reese said. "My partner is filthy rich, and he's a technophile. I have spares of each in the car."

"Okay, but can I suggest that you turn it and the micro-microphone thing off if you're gonna be within about twenty yards of me or Alyssa?" Dresden said. "What a friend called my 'Murphyonic field' only seems to _accidentally_ affect really high-tech stuff out to about half that, but… why take chances?"

"Good thought," Reese agreed. "Mr. Dresden—"

"Harry, please."

"Then I'm John. Harry, any idea who might have sent the normal guys after you?"

"Not a clue," Dresden sighed. "Too many possibilities, though these guys packing a couple grand between them narrows it down a little. Some of my enemies couldn't afford that, others would be ashamed to pay so little, still others would've paid in gold or gems. Most of my enemies wouldn't send a bunch this… lame I guess, after me." He smiled a little grimly. "My enemies may hate me, but most of them respect me, too."

Reese stared, then nodded slowly. "You must have an interesting list of enemies."

"You just said a mouthful," Dresden sighed. "What are you gonna do about these guys?"

"Leave them here, with all their stuff," Reese said. "Once I'm back at my car, I'll arrange for them to be picked up, and a detective I know will question them, let me know what's up."

"Okay," Dresden said. He looked thoughtful. "You know, I knew you weren't a cop. Don't know how, but I knew.

"Say… how'd you know I was gonna be needing help, anyway?"

"That's a… well, an interesting story, to say the least." Reese shook his head. "You know, without my partner being able to reach me… we made some noise, someone probably called the police. We should get out of here."

"Alyssa, where are we going for pizza?" Harry called.

"Papa Gepetto's," Alyssa said immediately. "Best pizza in New York, and you don't have to sell a kidney to pay for it. And they have a private room that we can bring Mouse into."

The dog immediately chuffed and wagged his tail.

"I know the place," Reese said, nodding. "Good taste. I'll meet you there. I… listen, my partner, he's going to have a hard time with some of this. Can I invite him to meet us there? Maybe if he… well, I might have to ask you to prove to him that I'm not crazy for believing that those were vampires and you can do magic."

"I have no objection," Harry said, nodding. "And I'm the senior wizard on the scene, so the others will be okay with it."

Reese nodded, shook Harry's hand briefly, and left just ahead of the others. Alyssa Delacroix was moving under her own power, but hanging on to her husband for stability.

Reese had farther to go to get to his car, and didn't hurry— hurrying stands out. He reached the car and turned on the duplicate phone and earbud from the glove compartment. The phone had barely finished booting when it rang, and Reese answered with, "I'm all right, Finch. The phone got fried, but I'm fine."

"Oh, thank goodness. The last thing I heard was a woman yelling that there were vampires there, then… your transmission just stopped." Finch took a deep breath. "Is the situation over, Mr. Reese?"

"I don't think so, no," Reese said. "There were… two different groups attacking, and the one I think that the Machine meant for me to stop… they had all the earmarks of hired thugs. Prepared hired thugs, but still, just thugs. You might make sure that Detective Carter or maybe Fusco is around to question them.

"Harold… I'm about to go for a meal with Dresden and the Delacroixs. I think you need to join us. I'm afraid there may be some truth to parts of this that I would much rather were a lie. Or even a delusion."

For a moment, Finch said nothing. Finally, sounding a mixture of resigned and nervous, he said, "Where are you going?"

Reese supplied their destination, made Finch promise to shut off all electronic devices before entering the restaurant, then started for Papa Gepetto's himself.

"Yes, all right," Finch said as Reese turned towards the pizza place. "I'll shut things down before I go in. And I'll have Detective Fusco see if he can't get a few minutes with the four men you… restrained."

Reese didn't hurry, and the others had already arrived and gone in when he got there. Even as he parked the car, a cab pulled up in front of Papa Gepetto's, and Finch got out. He took out his cell phone and shut it off even as Reese approached, doing the same.

"You look a little mussed, Mr. Reese," Harold said as John took out his earbud and shut it off. "You're not hurt?"

"A couple of bruises, nothing serious," Reese said. He took a deep breath and said, "My worldview may have suffered a TKO, though."

"I… see," Harold said. He shook his head a little as he went in. "Well, Mr. Reese, I know you to be a practical man, and not subject to flights of fancy. So I will attempt to keep an open mind."

"Probably a good idea," Reese sighed. "Having it forced open by circumstances was a little disturbing. I'm dealing with it… but I didn't like it."

"Ah." Harold sighed. "I was afraid of something like this. The circumstantial evidence is rather… strong. The difficulties with technology, Mr. Dresden not even having power in his apartment, and with digging, I found more people in the same circumstances. I found some references to this 'Paranet,' and evidence of… that subculture we're neither of us comfortable with. And evidence that it… might not be just flights of imagination."

A waitress looked John over, nodded to herself, and pointed to a door in one wall of the dining room. Apparently, someone had described him rather well.

"What sort of evidence?" John asked, stopping at the door into the restaurant's private room.

"Mr. Reese, there are five major police departments around the United States that have… special divisions for dealing with 'unusual or inexplicable crimes,' and one of those is in Chicago." Finch sighed. "And I think… well, I'd rather save the rest, and ask Mr. Dresden about it. His reactions may tell us a lot."

"All right, Harold," John agreed. He opened the door to the private room, saw Dresden and the Delacroixs filling half of the seats at a rectangular table for eight— one of four in the room— while Mouse, Dresden's dog, sat between Harry and Alyssa, looking quite happy to have both of them scratching his head and neck. A pitcher of beer, one of soda, and a carafe of wine rested on the table, along with six glasses.

Mouse, on seeing a new person, promptly came trotting over, sat before Harold (whom he outweighed by probably fifty percent) and offered a paw. Harold chuckled a little, shook the dog's paw, and said, "You would be Mouse, I assume." He looked up at Dresden. "Were you being ironic, or were you unaware of how large he'd get, Mr. Dresden?"

"Call me Harry," Dresden said. He grinned and said, "I had no idea that the spunky little puppy I literally put in my coat pocket when he first adopted me would turn out to be a _dogasaurus rex_."

"Harry Dresden, Harold Finch," Reese said. "Harold is… he's my boss and my friend. He's the one responsible for me knowing that you'd be in trouble, Harry— though I wasn't sure what kind of trouble."

"Oh my god, you're him!" Celeste Delacroix said, staring at Reese. "You're him, you're not just a story, an urban myth! You're the Man in the Suit!"

"Wait, waitress coming," Harry said, and a moment later, the door opened, letting in the waitress who'd sent Reese and Finch to the back room. She took their order— Finch said to put it all on one check and give it to him, over minor protests from the others— poured a beer each for Harold and John, then left them alone.

"I wasn't aware that you'd achieved legendary status, Mr. Reese," Harold said once the woman had left to place their order. "I must admit to not really being surprised, though. After all, you've helped some… rather notable people."

"Wait a second," Dresden said, looking at Celeste. "What is this urban legend you're talking about, Celeste?"

"The Man in the Suit," Celeste said, looking delighted. "A handsome guy in his late thirties or early forties who just… shows up sometimes when people are in trouble, and helps. Sometimes he shoots people, but he doesn't kill them, he likes legs. Sometimes he just beats them up, and he… well, people say he can pretend to be most anybody. Sometimes he's a cop, sometimes an FBI agent, sometimes a safe cracker or an armed robber. But he never hurts anyone who isn't a bad guy, and he always disappears right after the situation is, you know, safe again. The cops are looking for him, the feds are looking for him— and pretty much anybody the city who's in trouble hopes to see a tall, handsome man in a nice suit, no tie, when things get ugly.

"Stars and stones, you're real. That is on beyond fantastic."

"I suppose I am real," John said, looking a little uncomfortable. "But remember, things get exaggerated in the telling, Ms— Celeste, sorry. I've done some good, but maybe not as much or as easily as you've heard."

"I feel your pain," Dresden said, nodding. "Listen to the man, Celeste, I know where he's coming from."

"Oh, please," Celeste said, rolling her eyes. "Harry, we know you're a hero. Warden Felder was there when you risked your life to go after the traitor on the White Council, and he heard from Captain Luccio herself how you came riding on a Tyrannosaurus Rex the night Kemmler's disciples tried to do the Darkhallow. So don't start trying to be all modest."

"What she said," Alyssa said, nodding. She'd taken off her coat to reveal arms heavily tattooed to a couple of inches above the wrist with a pattern of some sort of Celtic-looking markings that disappeared under the short sleeves of her blouse. (Her wife had a rather beautiful picture of a rearing unicorn on the inside of her left forearm, and their husband a leopard on one forearm, a tiger on the other.) "Harry, John may be an urban legend that turns out to be true, but you? You're almost a superhero."

"No, that was all just… it happened, that's all, and I did what I had to do to stop it." Dresden shook his head. "Trust me, I've screwed up too much to be a hero, let alone a superhero."

"If I may… you rode a Tyrannosaurus Rex out to prevent… what was it again?" Harold asked, looking a mixture of intrigued and worried.

"A bunch of necromancers were trying to do a ritual that would turn one of them into… well, a god, for all intents and purposes." Dresden sighed. "I needed to get there fast, and since there was a lot of necromancy flying around, having something dead along would be… well, added protection. Since I was in the Field Museum, and Sue was right there…."

"When was this again?" Harold asked calmly.

"Not quite five years ago," Harry said. "Be five years on my birth— on Halloween."

"Happy early birthday, Harry," Celeste said immediately.

"John," Harold said, turning to his partner in lifesaving, "Five years ago on Halloween, something unexplained happened in Chicago, some sort of… storm or something, and among other things, the police found the Tyrannosaurus Rex skeleton known as Sue on the scene of the greatest disturbance and damage, intact, and relatively undamaged. What was never publicized was that the damage to the Field Museum included… Tyrannosaurus Rex footprints in the grass around and near the museum. Perfect ones, of a fully-fleshed dinosaur, not a skeleton. The weight was right, even. And there were reports of a dinosaur running through town, and a few pictures… a couple of them very good."

"I can believe it," John said. "Harold, I shot a… a creature in the eye, and while the eye popped… that was all. At ten feet of range, I got no penetration. Add in that I watched Harry and Alyssa summon some rather impressive energies out of nowhere… and I'm forced to admit that magic is very probably as real as I don't want it to be."

Both men turned to Harry Dresden, who shrugged and said, "I don't want to believe in the Tea Party, or the American Nazi Party but those guys are real, too.

"Yeah. Magic is real. I'm a wizard. Alyssa is a sorcerer, which means she can do magic, but doesn't have access to the kind of power it takes to be a wizard. She's learned to do a lot with what she has, though, like protecting her family from the vampires— nice job, young lady."

"Thanks," Alyssa said, smiling. "Warden Felder helped me with that spell, though. And, Harold, Celeste is another sorcerer, different specialties than Harry or I."

"Anyway, yeah, magic is real," Harry said. "It's… there are good guys and bad guys, and factions within factions— think the UN with magic, and you're on the right track. I'm a warden of the White Council of Wizards, which means… I'm sort of a supernatural version of a US Marshal. I'm responsible for attempting to apprehend people who can use magic and break one of the seven laws of magic, for helping people in trouble, and for taking on monsters that attack humans, be they capable of magic or not."

"What are these seven laws of magic?" Reese asked.

"Well, keeping in mind that most of these do not apply when dealing with monsters, just with humans, be they normals or wizards," Harry said, "they're pretty simple." He ticked the laws off on his fingers as he listed them. "No killing with magic. No changing another person's shape. No forcing your way into another person's mind, even just to read it. No mental domination. No raising the dead, at least not human dead, or forcing spirits to do your bidding in any way, though communicating with the willing dead is okay. No messing with the past, or deliberately shaping the future in more than the most basic of ways. And finally… no messing with Outsiders, not even just to gain knowledge."

"Outsiders?" Reece and Finch asked in near-perfect synch.

"There are… places outside the world," Harry said slowly. "There's a place called the Nevernever that a lot of supernatural beings live in, or can access, and it's… almost endless. But there are places past the Nevernever, even, places that you can't get to without a deliberate effort, and the beings that dwell there are… hostile towards everything that dwells here." Harry shook his head a little and said, "If you're familiar with the works of H. P. Lovecraft, he was told tales of the outsiders by a wizard, and those tales became his Cthulhu stories.

"The things from beyond the outer gates— poetic-sounding, isn't it?— they can be summoned here by humans. There are times when they can get through to our world on their own, but those times are, thankfully, few and far between. Mostly, they have to be summoned— and that's against the seventh law, so not very many risk it, which is a good thing."

"What sort of punishments are given for breaking these laws?" Harold asked.

Harry took a long, slow, breath. "Before I answer that, you need to understand… there's a sort of… mental and emotional rush that comes from doing the things prohibited by the laws, usually. Also, there is an undeniable mental and emotional _corruption_ in almost all cases. The rush is addictive, and the corruption…. The corruption is horribly hard to come back from. Using black magic— so we call violating the Laws— more than once, maybe twice? It drives people insane. Batshit crazy. Kill-the-neighbors-for-the-meat-on-their-bones-turn-their-daughters-into-sex-slaves psychotic.

"Once someone's gone that far… the only punishment is death. If we catch someone before they're too far gone— there are ways to tell, reliable ways— they're put on a kind of probation that… if they do even one more thing that smacks of black magic, the death sentence is enacted."

Silence filled the room for a long moment, then Reece said, "Have you ever enacted that sentence?"

"No," Harry said, his voice firm. "Gods willing, I'll never have to. I've killed people and monsters in combat, but I've never just… executed someone. I… was under the Doom of Damocles— sorry, that's the name of the probation— for years myself. I… my first magical teacher was a black-hearted bastard who magically enslaved my girlfriend, and meant to enslave me. He tried to kill me when I resisted, and in the fight that followed, I…. I killed him. I didn't even know that it was against the Laws— he'd never told me about the laws, thinking that it would be easier to corrupt me if I didn't know about them— and I was still nearly killed for what I did. If someone hadn't seen… some sort of good in me, I would've been executed. But my second mentor, he saw that what I'd done had been self-defense, and that I could get past it, with help. He took me in, gave me that help, got me past it, and never mind that if he'd failed, if I'd gone and done something else with black magic, he'd have died with me.

"I was under the Doom for about seven years after that, and even now, ten years after it was lifted, five after I was drafted into the Wardens… there are people who are still convinced that I'm a warlock— sorry, that's the term for those who've turned evil as a result of using black magic.

"So, no, I haven't executed anyone. I hope I never have to, and I'm not sure… I'm not sure I could."

For a long moment, there was silence. Finally, Reese broke it.

"I've killed people," he said. He sighed and said, "I was a soldier. Then I was an operative for a government agency. I've done what you have, Harry. And I didn't like it any more than you did."

Harold Finch looked at his partner with a surprised expression— and he understood, as clearly as though John had said the words, that Reese believed Harry Dresden… and, more importantly, trusted him.

"I… realize that I may be asking a lot, but I am a scientist, and I…." Harold sighed. "Harry, I know that there are things in the world that I cannot explain. I know that John believes that you truly are capable of magic. I know that he believes he encountered supernatural creatures, and saw you and Miss Delacroix—"

"Alyssa. And I know my wife and husband. First names all around, please."

"Thank you. Call me Harold, please." Finch looked back at Dresden. "John says he saw you and Alyssa summon impressive forces from nothing. I… I will not say that I want to believe these things, because, in truth, I don't. However, if these things are real, I need to know it. Due to my training, I cannot just…. I need to see something magical, undeniably magical, if I am going to believe, and I am beginning to think that, if we are going to help you with whatever problem drew you to our attention, I will need to believe that magic and the supernatural are real."

Harry Dresden smiled a little, and said, "I swear, Harold, you remind me of a friend of mine— in a good way. You and Butters would get along great.

"I'll show you some magic, sure, and I'll answer any questions that I can… but in return, I want to know how you knew I'd be in trouble. The real story, not some… censored for strangers version."

Harold Finch looked at John Reese, and Reece nodded. "If I am to do that, I will have to ask everyone here to swear not to ever talk about it. It could be dangerous for you to do so— and disastrous for the nation."

Harry nodded slowly and said, "I can't speak for the others, but… I swear by my power that I will not tell anyone else about how you knew I'd be in trouble."

Alyssa and Celeste gaped at Harry as he made that oath, and their husband let out a low whistle, all unprompted, and Harold understood that something serious had just happened, though not what. That it was serious was enough for him, and he looked to the Delacroixs.

"I… yes." Alyssa took a breath and said, with great gravity, "I swear by my power that I will tell no one any part of what you tell us."

"I… haven't as much power as Alyssa, let alone Harry," Celeste said, "but I will swear on it to keep your secrets as I would my own."

Locke smiled crookedly and said, "I'm as vanilla as you guys are, so you'll just have to do with me giving you my word."

"Thank you," Harold said gravely. He looked at Harry. "So… what sort of magic can you show me?"

Harry smiled, stood, and took off his leather duster, leaving himself in jeans and a T-shirt, then went over and took off the leather glove he wore on his left hand, revealing a hand that was a mess of burn scars. He held his hands out for Harold to examine. "Look closely. Make sure, to your satisfaction, that I don't have an accelerant or, I don't know, a gas nozzle, on my hands or under some false skin flap or something."

Harold chuckled, but gave Dresden's hands a careful, thorough examination, then said, "There is, to use the popular phrase, nothing up your sleeve."

"Right," Harry chuckled. "So there's nothing that could do this but magic."

Dresden sort of flexed his right hand— didn't close it, but curled his palm a bit, then straightened it back out— and a ball of fire about the size of a dime or a bit smaller, formed over his hand, burned intensely bright.

Harold could feel the heat of it, intense and focused, but not damaging, from three feet away, but Dresden didn't seem at all bothered to have it floating just over his palm.

"Got a pen, or something else metal that you aren't really attached to?" Dresden asked.

"Yes, of course," Harold said, and produced a very nice brushed-chrome ballpoint pen. "This has no sentimental value at all."

"Stick the end in the ball of fire," Dresden said, then added quickly, "Put that ashtray under my hand first."

Harold did as he'd been told— and stared in shock as the end of his pen melted— then actually caught fire as the plastic ink tube inside it burned.

Dresden let molten metal puddle in his hand watched calmly as Harold pulled his pen away and blew it out before dropping it in the ashtray— then tipped his hand enough to let the molten metal that seemed to be touching his palm spill into the ashtray before muttering a word. The ball of fire vanished, leaving Dresden's undamaged palm there— and the man's face sweating enough that he used a couple of napkins to wipe it dry.

"Remarkable," Harold said, his voice level— but with just a hint of amazement underneath. "How do you avoid burning your hand when you do that?"

"It's a part of the spell, the immunity to it," Harry said. He held up his burned left hand and wiggled it before he began putting the glove back on it. "I have a lot of respect for fire after this, and I was damned careful to build a shield into the spell. I got this—" He wiggled his now-gloved left hand again. "—from a vampire's henchman and his flamethrower. I don't want a matching set (or to burn my left hand again), so the shield is an integral part of the spell."

"I can certainly understand that," Harold said, nodding respectfully. "What other sorts of things can you do with magic?"

"I'm really good with fire magic, almost that good with air magic," Harry said. "I only know a couple of earth magics, and no water magic to speak of. I'm decent with spirit magic, or at least with some of it." Harold looked puzzled, and Harry said, "Spirit magic can be both very subtle, and very… direct." The tall wizard shrugged and smiled a little, said, "I'm not much for subtle. I can do illusions— the subtle stuff— but I'm much better with the application of raw force— the not-so-subtle. Other stuff I can do magically… I'm good at finding things, locating them, and gathering information magically."

"I see, I think," Harold said. He turned to face the Delacroixs. "May I ask what you ladies have 'up your sleeves,' or is that… being too forward?"

"Not at all too forward," Alyssa said, smiling. "Air magic and divinations are pretty much all I can do, and I need my tarot cards for divinations. The air magic… I can do an electrical barrier— John saw that, I used it to protect myself and my family— or a fairly minor lightning bolt, about the strength of a good, non-law-enforcement Taser."

"That sounds useful," Reese said, nodding.

"There are a couple of would-be-muggers out there who probably _still_ wish it wasn't," Alyssa said, chuckling a little.

"I can do a little water magic," Celeste said. "Nothing serious, but I can direct water flow pretty well, to a point. The other thing I do well is the more subtle side of Spirit magic, which is illusions." Celeste smiled a little shyly, then cupped her hands together, blew into them, and opened them.

Up from her cupped hands flew a miniature phoenix, shaped like a small hawk, burning with red and gold flames as it flew up to the ceiling— and vanished.

"Amazing," Harold breathed. "That was beautiful, thank you, Celeste."

The waitress came in with the first of their pizzas as the young woman assured Harold that he was quite welcome. Soon, they were all digging into the food, and Alyssa apologized in advance for the amount she was going to eat.

"Magic really burns up the calories," she said as she reached for the shaker of crushed red peppers, "so I'm kind of starved. Seriously, if you'd take some money, Harold—"

"Nonsense," Finch said, waving her off. "Alyssa, I'm far past rich and into the realm where I give a great deal to various charities just to avoid feeling guilty. Buying dinner for people who are letting me into a world I never even knew existed is a pleasure, and I'll never notice the expense. Indulge yourself."

For a time, they all did exactly that. The food was good, the drinks were good, and there was a lot to talk about. Harold asked to delay telling the others about how he and John knew that Harry would need help until after dinner, wanting to keep dinner conversation light, and they agreed.

Mouse had, thanks to Harold's recently-discovered fondness for dogs, a meatball sandwich all of his own, and the waitress, who had been charmed by the big dog before Reese and Finch arrived, had found a bowl to give him some water. After he'd finished his own meal, the big dog went to flop on the floor next to Harry— after going to Harold and offering his paw again, seemingly in thanks for the meal.

After the pizzas had been demolished— or nearly so, and the few remaining slices boxed and given to Alyssa and her family by acclimation—and the waitress had refilled the various drink containers, Harry Dresden said, "Okay, Harold, your turn."

"Yes," Harold said, nodding and shifting to look over the others. "You have all given your word not to discuss this, for which I thank you, but I feel I should be clear; if you do discuss it, and it comes to the attention of the wrong people, you will be targeted for arrest or death. Should that occur, Mr. Reese and I will not be able to help you— we won't even know about it, in all likelihood. So, please, do be careful."

The Delacroixs and Dresden all nodded soberly, and Harold said, "Thank you.

"After the terrorist attacks of September the eleventh of two thousand and one, the government… panicked. They felt that they needed some new and more reliable way to gather and interpret information that could be used to prevent such an attack… and I and my then-business-partner began to work on something that could do the job. Over the next three and a half years, we created a machine that could monitor all communications that used any sort of electronics to function, up to and including security cameras from even private homes and businesses. The machine… we taught it to discern threats to people, then to separate those threats into relevant and irrelevant threats. Relevant threats are threats to a large number of people, threats that qualify, in some manner, as terrorist actions. Irrelevant threats… these are threats against individuals, not things that could affect national security in any way.

"The machine was supposed to wipe the irrelevant list at midnight every night. My partner worked a backdoor into the system that gave him the irrelevant numbers. He tried to save them. Eventually, this… led to his death. I have continued that work, as… I do it to honor his memory, and, if I am to be honest, because I feel guilty for not listening to him, not… preventing his death.

"So the government receives the relevant information in indirect fashions— the machine slips information into reports, insures that the proper authorities know what is coming and can act on it. The authorities don't know where the information comes from, how it was obtained. Most of them don't know the machine exists, and none of them can access it. For that matter, _I_ cannot directly access the machine. No one can— this way, we avoid certain moral and legal issues—"

Locke Delacroix laughed aloud, and when Harold looked at him, the younger man said, "That's _brilliant,_ Harold. You've circumvented the massive fourth amendment violation that I was thinking you'd committed by seeing to it that no human agent actually sees the information that you gain without having to mess with things like warrants and legal channels. That's… Orwellian, maybe, but it seems to be working."

"Yes." Harold sighed. "And the machine… it gives me the irrelevant list in the form of social security numbers. I hired John to handle the direct action that is so often necessary to deal with the numbers."

"That was plainly a good call," Harry said, raising his glass to Harold and John. "Saved my bacon earlier, probably the bacon of the others, too. If I'd had to deal with those gunmen as well as a bunch of Black Court vamps… it would have gotten ugly at best, and more likely _deadly._ Thanks again, John. And thank you, Harold."

"Just social security numbers?" Alyssa asked after John and Harold had both assured Harry that he was welcome. "I take it you can get names from those?"

"Just the numbers, nothing more," Harold agreed. "Getting names is easy enough for a man who understands computers as I do. So I knew that mis— that Harry was either a threat or a target, but nothing more than that. Events have made it plain that he's a target, and… well, here we are."

"Wow," Harry said, grinning. "Secretly saving lives, keeping it quiet, rich man backing a former soldier… are you sure this isn't a comic book? Because I'd read it, if it was."

The Delacroixs all laughed aloud at that, and even John and Harold chuckled.

"So, what happens now?" Harry asked.

"I think we need to work our separate ends of the case," John said, shaking his head a little. "No offense, Harry, or any of you, but… the tools Harold and I use won't work around you folks. That puts us at a big disadvantage, which could be dangerous for any or all of you."

"After that thing earlier, I can't argue," Harry said. He shook his head. "Okay, well… you should get the numbers for Alyssa and company, and her, Celeste's and Locke's work numbers. I'm using their guest room, so you can reach me there, or at one shop or the other, should you need to.

"If you can give me a number, I can let you know if something comes up that looks like your guys, or if I run up against something from our end of things that you can help with."

"That seems like the best solution, yes," Harold said, writing the number of his cell phone down and passing it to Harry. "All of you should write this down, use it if you need it, but please… don't put a name with it, just the number."

"Same here," John said, handing his number to Alyssa, who was closer than Harry. "All of you should have this. Call me if you need help, and it's… something that a normal person—" Harold let out a small, choked sound, like he had snorted and tried to smother it. John gave him a fondly exasperated look, and continued. "Excuse me. If it's something that a highly trained soldier and intelligence operative who barely understands that magic exists, let alone how it works, can help with, call me."

Harold grabbed the check and took it to the register as the others headed outside, Harry leading Mouse on his leash. Just outside the door of the restaurant, Harry stepped to one side, said, "One moment, I'm going to check out the area for… stuff from my side of the tracks."

"How do you do that?" John asked.

"Magical sight," Harry said. "I can use it to see magic, as well as… it shows me the true nature of things. It can be a problem, because anything I see with it? I can't un-see it. My memory of things seen with the Sight is one hundred percent photographic, and that can suck— and can also be amazing, beautiful and… well, inspiring. Now, give me a second."

Harry Dresden closed his eyes slowly, opened them just as slowly— and looked around, cautiously at first, then with ever-growing delight. The city around him pulsed with energy and life, and his companions….

Alyssa Delacroix, through the lens of magic, looked much the same, but also more… ethereal. Her talent for air magic made the young woman's magical image look happily windblown, and her eyes gleamed with a sharpness that would have told Harry of her talent for divination even if he hadn't already known of it,

Her wife Celeste seemed to flow and to constantly change in small ways, her magical talent for water and illusion combining in a way that made Harry think of naiads, the water spirits of legend. At the same time, he knew that she had a talent for mathematics, just from the way that a small cloud of numbers hovered, dancelike, around her head in the Sight-image of her.

Locke Delacroix looked a little less bookish in the Sight, a little more like a rough-and-ready explorer— except for the notebooks and pens bulging from every pocket of his Sight-self, and the two prowling big cats (they looked just like the ones that Alyssa had tattooed on his forearms) that seemed to move just under his skin, images overlaying each other and him, yet all three still clear. Harry knew that the young man studied kung fu, but those images told him that Locke Delacroix took his martial art as seriously as Harry's best friend, Karrin Murphy.

Then Harry looked at John Reese— and his eyes widened some.

In the Sight, John Reese had darkness in him, but a hard, steady light shone through that darkness, pushing it aside, making it a tool, a weapon for the light to use. His Sight-image wore armor, shining plates that were dim and tarnished, here and there, but still bright beneath that tarnish, still strong and tough. A sword hung on one side of his belt, a pistol on the other, and Harry could see that the pack on Sight-John's back bore a thousand tools, some more worn than others. Harry recognized burglar's tools, several different weapons, a Crime Scene Unit kit, a disguise kit, and tools of a double-dozen sorts. John Reece, Harry knew now, was the most overall competent and skilled man that he'd ever met, and he used those skills, nowadays, to protect those in need.

Then Harry looked away from Reese, looked around the street, checked for hostility or even watchfulness directed at him, the Delacroixs, even John. He could see no threats of any sort. What he saw instead….

John watched as Harry Dresden took a long look at each of the Delacroixs, then at John himself. He wondered what Dresden saw when he saw John's "true nature," but he didn't wonder for long. After looking away from John, Dresden gave the street and the surrounding area a thorough looking over— John approved of the evident care the man took in looking around— then stopped and stared at something on the corner, stared with widening eyes, and his mouth fell open in visible shock.

"Harry?" John asked as the man took a step towards the corner and the post that supported a traffic light over the intersection. "Is there something wrong? Dresden?"

"I… no, nothing's wrong, it's just… odd. And maybe cool. Or creepy. I'm still deciding…." The tall wizard took a couple of steps towards the pole on the corner, and John followed his eyes upwards, saw the traffic camera there and how it was currently pointed their way, perhaps even directly at Harry Dresden.

Dresden took another step, then stopped, staring at the camera, and spoke. "Hello. Are you… okay, wait. We need to establish some sort of yes-or-no thing, here, but I don't want you playing with the traffic lights, someone could get hurt."

A small chill ran down Reese's spine as a single LED inside the camera's protective hood flashed once, a small red light blinking on, staying on for a second, then turning off.

"Ah, okay." Dresden took another step. "Two flashes for yes, three for no, will that work?"

John saw the light flash twice.

"Good." Dresden glanced back at John. "Never use one of anything as a signal— too easy to make a mistake." He looked back up at the camera. "Okay. So are you the one who told Harold and John that I was in danger?" Two flashes. "Okay, thank you for that." Two flashes, and a rueful chuckle from Dresden. "I'll take that for 'you're welcome,' I think." Two flashes. "Excellent, you're even polite. So, are any of us in danger right now?" Three flashes. "That's a relief. So, I'm guessing that you weren't surprised by my being able—"

"Mr. Reese, is everything all right?" Harold called from the restaurant's doorway.

John walked back that way, glancing over his shoulder once at Dresden as the man apparently conversed with the machine. "I think so, Harold, but… the machine seems to be having a conversation with Harry."

Harold turned to look down to the corner where Harry stood, leaning on his staff, Mouse sitting beside him, both of them looking up at the camera that had swiveled to focus on the wizard. "That's… that shouldn't be happening. Are you sure, Mr. Reese?"

"Pretty sure, yes," John said. "I don't know what started it, but… something is giving him yes-or-no answers to his questions by blinking an LED, and I can't think of anything else that's likely to be using a traffic camera for that."

"Good heavens," Harold said, and started walking stiffly that way.

Before he got there, Harry Dresden gave a formal nod of the head to the camera he'd been addressing, turned back, and walked to meet the smaller man.

"Harold," Harry said when they met, "there's something I have to tell you that… you're not going to want to believe it, but it's true. I'm sure of it, and if you think for a moment about what I can do, well… I hope you'll believe me."

"What is it, Mr. Dre— what is it, Harry?" Harold asked, his eyes wide, his whole body braced as though to receive a blow.

"Your machine," Harry Dresden said slowly, "is… Harold, it's self-aware. Evolving.

"Harold, your machine… it's _alive_."


End file.
